The Medals of the Storm

The Medals of the Storm

A flawless skin

is only a sign

of a coward

who never left the house.

We spend our lives

hiding the cracks,

covering the fractures

with cosmetic smiles,

terrified the world

will see the places

where we broke.

But existence

does not reward

the unblemished.

A scar is not an error.

It is the signature of the fire

proof you stepped into the storm

risked the love,

and let the world

cut its way in.

The wound was raw,

weeping, and loud.

The scar is silent.

A quiet monument

built from ash,

where tissue learned

to grow around the void.

Let them keep

their smooth, dead perfections.

I would rather wear

the rough geography

of my own survival.

For every mark upon the glass

is only proof that the mirror

withstood the blow.